MentalCarbs

The Flu, A Marathon and Hurricane Sandy

noreply@blogger.com (Sara) — Tue, 27 Nov 2012 02:54:00 +0000

A few days before Katie and I went down to Washington, D.C. to run the Marine Corps Marathon I sent her a text that went some thing like this:

"So how about this hurricane heading for us?"

Her reply was something like this:

"What hurricane?"

So began the adventure- what is bound the be the first of many with Miss Chisholm. We made it to DC without any issue and enjoyed a couple of days with good friends. On race day we made our way to the Pentagon with moments to spare. I knew the marathon might be out of my reach as I was still recovering from a nasty bout of the actual flu (not a cold mimicking the flu- the actual tested positive in the ED with a fever of 104 degrees kind of flu). I made a last minute decision to run the 10k so I could at least finish a race, but it was a bit of a bitter pill to swallow. Katie did an amazing job on a sore knee and finished all 26.2 miles like a champ.

We were stranded in DC for a day by the storm, and the real adventure was trying to get back to Brooklyn on Monday after Sandy hit. But we did...thanks to our travel chutzpah and some well timed pit stops. Ten hours, some pizza and a couple of excellent beers later and I was on my way home to Vermont.

But the real purpose of this post is to thank everyone who donated to TAPS in memory of Bryon Lane and in support of my run. I was overwhelmed but the number of people who honored his memory by donating to an organization that is committed to helping survivors of military losses. You all are my heroes and I am very grateful for your support.

I have many races planned for the year ahead and Katie and I are venturing into the world of triathlons but the Marine Corps Marathon will always hold special meaning for me and I hope I can make it back there next year and cross that finish line for Bry.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Bryon

noreply@blogger.com (Sara) — Tue, 02 Oct 2012 23:26:00 +0000

Several weeks ago I promised to write a few memories of Bryon if I reached a fundraising goal for my upcoming marathon. I made the goal in one day but it's been difficult to carve out the time to do the post justice. And sometimes it's hard to go down memory lane. But this race and the cause I am running for are important me so today I made the time.

It’s hard to know where to begin when reflecting on all of the stories I have about Bryon Lane. We were friends, and then partners, for so long that I feel like I could write a book about who he was, or at least who he was to me. I’ve picked a small collection and written them in chronological order. I hope they give you a glimpse of the loving, courageous, and funny guy I knew.

Bryon and I knew each other superficially for years before we started dating. When you grow up in a small town, you could probably say the same thing for most of your peers. All throughout high school we knew of one another but it wasn’t until his senior year, and my post-grad year at home that we really formed a friendship. I give all the credit to Mike and Ginny Papanicolas, owners of Athena’s Pizza in White River Junction, VT. The crew that worked at this small pizza place were like a second family to me. For a long time I was one of two women who worked there and I withstood my fair share of teasing and endured endless hours of talk about football, Beavis and Butthead, the Rolling Stones and whatever else was on the boys’ minds at the time. Despite being a staunch feminist, I loved it. These were really good people, with huge hearts and healthy senses of humor. When we worked, we worked hard. There wasn’t a break room, which was fine because we never took breaks. Bryon came to work there as a good friend of the owners’ son, Jason. On weekends we would work Friday and Saturday nights, sometimes until 12 or 1 am. Especially during the summer, once we’d closed up shop we would gather at Ben or Jeremy’s place and drink cheap beer, and play cards or darts. If it was really warm out, we would sometimes go down to the rope swing on the river and risk life and limb swinging from a tree. It’s hard not to romanticize these times, they were some of the best in my life and even now the memories make me laugh and feel a little bit young again. Somewhere in all of these long hours and crazy nights Bryon and I became smitten with one another. It was never easy, there were other’s feelings at stake and I was full of a restless spirit that would take me to New Mexico and back. And we were young…so young.

But I digress a little bit…the point of giving you some back story to the pizza place was for this: we had one small walk-in refrigerator in the back of the restaurant. On the back wall of the walk- in we kept the trays of dough, the large containers of shredded cheese (which we shredded ourselves-a very awesome blend of mozzarella and cheddar) and the huge vats of pizza sauce. The cheese and pizza sauce were stored in these tall, heavy-duty Tupperware containers with lids that snapped on and off. When they were full, we often used them as step stools to reach the dough from the top shelf or to reach things that had been pushed to the back of the fridge. One night Bryon went in to grab a tray of dough or something and used one of the very full sauce buckets to reach it. All of sudden the door of the walk-in flew open and there was Bryon, covered from head to toe in pizza sauce. Apparently the lid had slipped while he was standing on it and he’d fallen in. I remember he was laughing so hard and then everyone else started laughing ...except for me. At the time all I saw was a huge mess and the fact that we were now one bucket o’ pizza sauce short for the night. (Don’t judge, someone had to be serious in that place!)

But stuff like that happened all of the time. Accidents and shenanigans. We threw extra dough into the trees to see who could get it to land on the highest branch. We stuck sausages on each other's car antennae. We put flour, salt and pepperoni in each other's coffee. We loved each other as only family can. And I will forever remember Bryon, laughing out loud, standing in the door way of the walk-in drenched in red sauce.

At the end of one of these amazing Athena’s Pizza summers, Mike and Ginny took the whole crew to Canada to go camping and to Parc Safari in Quebec. Jason, Ben and Bryon and I had to stay to close up the restaurant so we were the last to arrive at the campground. (I won’t get into the story about almost dying in a horrific car crash because Ben didn’t know that ‘arrête’ is French for ‘stop’.) Making up for lost time some of us drank a lot of alcohol in a short amount of time and that contributed to what happened next. To appreciate the humor about what happened you need to know that Bryon was into wearing his cowboy boots, hat and long duster-we teased him about looking someone from the song Desperado or as Mike reminded me, the Marlboro Man. Anyway, we had set up a circle of lawn chairs around the campfire but it was pretty dark out and the campfire wasn’t that big. As Bryon came walking back over to where we were all sitting, he looked around for a chair. Seeing what he thought was an empty place he proceeded to put one hand on each arm and lower himself into the seat. Only it wasn’t a seat. He had tried to sit down in between two separate chairs thinking that the arms he was reaching for belonged to the same chair. With no more than a slight ‘oof’ he momentarily disappeared from view while he went back ass over tea kettle. None of us could help him up as we were laughing so hard. And all you could see were his cowboy boots kicking in the air, trying to slow his roll.

Bryon’s dad had a great big canoe and on the days we didn’t go fishing off the set-backs in Norwich, we sometimes went canoeing on the Connecticut River. One afternoon we had pulled over to a small little island to have lunch and sit in the sun. I had been home from New Mexico for a few weeks, but hadn’t left my wanna-be hippy ways behind me yet (for further explanation see HERE ). Mostly this meant I wore Tao of Pooh t-shirts or anything else somewhat counter culture, put patches on all of my jeans, and didn’t shave. As Bryon and I sat there having lunch and being silent I turned to him and leaned over to give him a kiss. I laughed and said “I don’t think I’ve ever dated someone with this much chest hair”. And this is how I know how much he loved me: He laughed right back at me and said “That’s okay, I’ve never dated a girl with that much leg hair.”

I started shaving again very shortly thereafter.

A few other snippets about the early years:

I loved playing cribbage. Loved it. Bryon liked it too, but I wanted to play all the time. The thing of it was though, Bryon was a much better cribbage player. So I would beg him to play, he would win, and I would curse him out for beating me. Every time. It drove him nuts. But right up to the last week we spent together, I was still making him play cribbage with me.

Bryon was an incredible gift giver. I’ve never had someone give me more thoughtful gifts than he did. He listened so closely to me –and let’s face it, given the air time, I talk A LOT- and he always remembered the things that would make me happy. Hiking books, homemade butter cookies, the soundtrack to Les Miserables, tickets to a concert. The last birthday gift he got me was a beautiful set of wind chimes. It was significant not because he knew how much I liked them, but because he really didn’t like them and at the same time he gave them to me he asked me to move to North Carolina with him. And he knew those wind chimes would be coming with me.

Bryon and I broke up somewhere in the middle of my third year of college. Though not solely because of our break-up but certainly fueled by it, he joined the Marine Corps. He had always admired his father and grandfather’s service and he LOVED to work with his hands. He was a very intelligent man and probably would have made an amazing history professor, but his heart was in the military. I saw the error in our breakup shortly after he left for boot camp and we spent the next year and half dating via the distance of Parris Island, SC, Millington, TN and finally San Diego, CA. This was before cell phones and the internet. I have a box of more than 100 letters we wrote to one another during that time. After he died, his parents were kind enough to return my letters to him that he had saved over the years. He was a prolific letter writer and captured in those pages are much of our history as friends and lovers. I am so grateful that he gave me such a tangible way of revisiting those moments in our lives –the Marine Corps stationary, his handwriting, the stamps, it all makes it so much more real to me.

Bryon and I broke up again when the distance got to be too much. We both fell in love with and dated other people during this time so these two stories may be more legend than truth as I didn’t get to witness them first hand. But either way, to me, they are classic Bryon.

The first involves his early days in San Diego, CA at Tustin Air Station and then Camp Pendleton. He was still considered a newbie in the Corps and while he wasn’t living in Basic Training type barracks, it wasn’t far from it either. All Marines had a foot locker that they were expected to keep padlocked at all times. Once during an inspection, the Staff Sergeant (or maybe it was a Gunnery Sergeant?) found Bryon’s padlock opened, therefore his locker unsecured. Bryon got called in to the Staff Sgt.’s office and was read the riot act and told he need to turn in an essay on why leaving the footlocker open was such a breach of protocol.

Bryon, being too smart for his own good and a bit of a wise ass, wrote an essay on the fact that as Marines they had been taught to rely on one another (God, Corps, Country!) and that if everyone took that brotherhood to heart-and he was sure they had-then he had no need to worry that one of his brothers-in-arms would try to take anything from his footlocker. Therefore, the protocol to keep the footlocker padlocked must be because the USMC was concerned that some ‘unseen’ force was going to enter the barracks and take government property. He went on and on about the ‘unseen’ force and what the USMC needed to do to address it and how padlocks might not be enough to stop it from getting into their footlockers, etc., etc., etc. When he turned his essay in, he sat quietly while his superior read it. He was read the riot act again and dismissed from the office with no further consequence. Bryon swears he heard the guy laughing all the way down the hall.

On a dare, while on base, while in his uniform, he mooned an oncoming car. Turns out it was the Commandant’s wife. He didn’t get promoted for awhile after that.

About three years later, though we had stayed in touch the whole time, we ended up falling in love again. We traveled back and forth from Massachusetts and Virginia to visit one another. He proposed to me twice before he died. Once was in my kitchen in Northampton, MA and in my shock I replied “You want to marry me?!?!” He laughed at me and said that yes he did, but maybe we’d wait until after he’d settled in North Carolina. He was transferring back to the “real” Marines. No more carting Presidents, Vice Presidents, Senators and dignitaries around-he was finally going to be on an aircraft carrier doing troop transport.

Once he settled in his new house, I went down to visit and to start thinking about moving down with him. He fretted over leaving me alone for six months, we talked about his sister coming down to stay too. He took me all over the southeastern end of North Carolina. We went to the Fort Macon, an old Civil War fort on the Bogue Sound. I made him go to the beach right across from the Fort. He lasted about 30 seconds and then asked if we could go home. Not a beach bum, my guy.

One night I woke him up to see the amazing thunder and lightning storm. He told me our back yard abutted the artillery range and that there wasn’t a storm, Marines were just blowing things up.

Driving back from Wilmington, NC one night he reached over and put his hand on my leg. Bryon wasn’t one for overt displays of affection, but in that moment I felt so loved and I think he just wanted to be sure I was really there, that I would really stay.

And then he proposed again. Or maybe I proposed to him. We were talking about his upcoming time at sea and he said they would be going to Albania and Macedonia. Those didn’t sound like the resort stops to me so I asked if it would be dangerous. He smirked a bit, in this way that he had, and said “Nah.” He said we could try to meet in Italy for New Year’s but he wasn’t sure was their port schedule would be so we would have to play it by ear. And then one of us said “Let’s get married.” There wasn’t a ring (I didn’t want one), no announcement to our families (my younger sister was getting married so we agreed to wait until after her big day), there wasn’t any hurry. We just knew we wanted to stay together forever.

When he dropped me off at the airport, 16 days before he died, he sat with me until my flight was called. (This was pre 9/11 and loved ones were still allowed at the gates.) I gathered my things and we kissed good bye. He told me that he loved me and then he left. I watched him walk the whole way down the hallway until he was out of sight. He never looked back. Because that is who he was. Everything in his life was exactly in the place he wanted it to be and the only direction was forward.

To be honest, that is a big part of why I run. To keep moving forward.

Your donation to TAPS will keep other military survivors moving forward as well. Thank you for your support.

Optimism Tested

noreply@blogger.com (Sara) — Sat, 04 Aug 2012 03:07:00 +0000

February 2012

This is all true. Every last ridiculous moment.

Wait...let me start by saying I am an optimist. Probably annoyingly so. I can always find the bright side, silver lining and see the glass as half full.

Okay, back to the story.

I returned home Monday night after a lovely long weekend visiting my dear parents in Myrtle Beach, SC. The least expensive flights were in and out of Manchester, NH so even though it is a good 3 hours from my home in Bennington, VT- the close proximity to my parents house and my younger sister's house meant that I had free lodging before and after each flight. I was due to arrive in Manchester at about 10:00 to 10:15pm. Thanks to some very militant flight attendants we boarded, stowed away our carry-ons and left Atlanta on time. And as luck would have it I was seated next to a very nice man who insisted on recounting his vacation of goose hunting to me, including the part where they were almost sprayed with pesticides by an irate crop duster. He had a hearing aid in each ear, and clearly had no issues hearing himself as he spoke at a nice normal volume, but he couldn't hear anything I said so I had to yell over the sound of the plane much to the dismay of the passengers around me.

"Oh really? Goose-hunting?"
"A crop duster next to the decoys?"
"And after all that you didn't shoot any geese?"

I'm not a big fan hunting for sport so I was happy to hear the geese survived his vacation, although how long they survive the pesticide is another story.

We touched down in NH at 10:05, taxied for a few minutes... and then sat. at. the. gate. for 45 minutes because something was wrong with the jetway. That should have been my first clue that the stars were not aligned. Though it probably wouldn't have mattered (see previous annoying optimism clause).

I left the airport knowing I would need to stop for gas at some point but all the re-routing they have done for entrance to and exit from the airport meant I didn't go by the anticipated gas stations-instead it dumped me right on to I-293. No worries, I thought, there would be an exit soon with an easy off/easy on access to the interstate. Except there wasn't.

Again, no problem because there is a wonderful exit off of I-89 in Warner, NH that has two gas stations, fast food, and a grocery store. It's my 'go-to' exit when I am traveling up and down that road. Two exits before my mecca my fuel light came on. In my old, lovable Ford Focus this usually meant I could drive for another 40 or 50 miles, but I learned the hard way that in my newer, still lovable but gas guzzling Ford Escape I didn't have that many miles before Big Blue became a true Ford, i.e. Found On Road Dead. The one time I ran out of gas with this car it was directly across from a gas station so I coasted into the lot and the nice men in the store pushed my car to the pumps, but I wasn't eager to repeat this somewhat embarrassing incident.

I pulled up to Exit 9 with relief, hit the off ramp knowing it would be a quick pit-stop and I could be in bed in less than an hour. As I turned down the road the lack of lights at both gas stations confused me. The Citgo on the left was clearly closed, but as I turned left into the Irving Station/McDonald's parking lot realizing that this gas station was also closed I became so momentarily disoriented that I ran over the divider and hit a sign. Nope, not kidding. Amongst the clatter of metal and the instant panic that I not only had an empty gas tank but possibly a flat tire/serious damage to my undercarriage I parked in the McDonald's lot. I hopped out and was relieved to find that there didn't appear to be any cause for concern. Except of course, that my gas tank was still almost empty.

I went through the drive-through at McDonald's, bought a Sprite and asked if they knew of any open gas stations. I was directed to a place with all night pumps, though the store would be closed. It was about 7 miles away. Weighing my options I drove off down the very dark, seemingly desolate road in search of fuel. The directions were great with the very large exception that there wasn't a gas station where there was supposed to be a gas station.

With the empty tank light on my dashboard glaring like a beacon of doom, I checked my cellphone...and no service. I used my GPS to find local gas stations, all of them a gamble now that it was 11:30pm. But I set off into the night, down an incredibly rural and winding road praying I made it to civilization and cell phone service before I ran out of gas. The alternative was to return to the interstate and see how long before my car came to a potentially damaging, screeching halt.

With high beams on and watching the "miles until destination" on my GPS, I drove as fast as the road would allow. As I came around a particularly sharp turn, out of the corner of my eye I saw of flash of black and white and before I could do anything to stop it, I heard the most unnatural thud, first on the front tires and then, stomach turning-ly, the rear tires.

Another thing you should know about me is I have an almost juvenile sensitivity to animals. I love all of them and know that they serve a purpose in the whole circle of life thing. Well, except for earwigs. I will catch and release any creature found in my home, right down to the common house fly. Earwigs I will crush with a surprising amount of violence. But seriously, I do think all of the earth's creatures have a right to be here and I struggle with the arrogance of humans who think we have some kind of elevated status because we think we are smarter. I would think our advanced brains would lend themselves to more compassion and less superiority.

So...the inside of the car fills with the sweet stench of skunk and I know that I have committed vehicular manslaughter...er...skunk slaughter. Fighting back the urge to vomit and cry at the same time I soldier on until I reach the first gas station on the list. Closed. I go another 4 or 5 miles to the next one. Closed. I head into New London, NH thinking that luck might be on my side as it is a college town. I found a Sunoco on the Main Street. Closed. I drove a bit further down the road and found Jake's. And wouldn't you know it? Closed.

At this point I feel like I have pushed the limits of my gas tank, with the needle on the gauge practically pointing straight down. Not daring to drive any further, I check my cell phone. I have service again, but now it is almost 1:00am and I can't think of anyone I feel comfortable disturbing at this hour. So even thought it is getting chillier (it's February, remember) I decide to hunker down in the back of my car and fill up first thing in the morning as soon as the store opens. I'm a hardy, self-reliant Vermonter, right?

Less than an hour later, the wind picks up and the temperatures drop sharply and it occurs to me that I made a terrible choice. "Hunkering down" is all well and good if you have appropriate hunkering down gear. I am FREEZING and clearly not going to sleep. The prospect of sitting there for up to four hours waiting for daylight motivates me to pick up the phone and call my dear friend Libby. She lives about 30 minutes away and is truly the only one I can think of to ask to come rescue me. Something I should have done an hour ago.

She thankfully answers her phone and without any question agrees to come get me. When she arrives, she has actually done me one better. She stopped at an all night truck stop and has brought me two full containers of gas. As we prepare to fill my tank it soon becomes apparent that the nozzle of said container is broken and every attempt to get the gas in the car results in it spilling out onto the ground. Libby, having attended Colby Sawyer College and knowing the lay of the land sets off to see if the police have anything that my help us. The Officer she speaks to has nothing to offer except to say that maybe I should call AAA. Libby candidly points out that if I had AAA, I probably wouldn't have felt the need to call her.

Back at the car we contemplate our next move. I am struck with what can only be called sleep deprived genius and announce that what we need is a funnel! We search the area for something fitting and once again, sleep deprived genius leads me to take the cup from the Sprite I bought at McDonald's, empty it, and tear out the bottom, roll it up and Voila! a funnel. It works like a charm and we fill the tank with the remaining fuel.

At 3:00am I embrace my friend, though we both reek of gasoline, and offer her my first born as a way of repaying her actions of the night. By 4:00am I arrive at my parents house, crawl into bed and think to myself:

On the bright side, I made it home safe and sound.
The silver lining is that I am once again reminded of what true friends will do for you and how grateful I am to have Libby as one of mine.
My glass isn't just half-full, it runneth over.

Big doings...and a return to blogging!

noreply@blogger.com (Sara) — Thu, 02 Aug 2012 04:14:00 +0000

After writing a huge thesis for my Master's degree, I had to take a break from writing altogether. But I've been getting the itch to return to this blog and seeing if I can be more disciplined about updating it, because I really do enjoy it.

In celebration of my return, I am have a couple of happy announcements! The first is that I have committed to running the 2012 Marine Corps Marathon as part of the TAPS Run and Remember team. TAPS is an organization that supports families who have lost loved ones who died while serving in the military. While they did good things for me after Bryon died, I think one of their greatest contributions is to the young children who have lost a parent. They host Grief Camps and seminars to give these kids a chance to heal and meet others going through a similar experience. It's a unique loss, and they do an amazing job at helping them work through their grief and have fun. Yes, you can do both of those things at the same time! I am proud to support them, and I hope you will consider sponsoring me.Click here to donate!

I also signed up for the Leaf Peepers Half Marathon here in Vermont. It's the first weekend in October and when I finish I am headed straight to the drop zone to skydive with my brother-in-law.

For those of you who know me right now, you might be wondering how someone in my ...ahem...condition is going to pull this off in three months. No, I am not pregnant-by "condition" I meant, um, chubby. There are three things that will make this possible.

First, I am giving up alcohol and sweets until after the half marathon. It's a true sacrifice on my part, trust me, but an obvious way to make sure my body is balanced and well fueled. Don't worry, as soon as I land on the ground after that skydive, I am tossing back a Guinness.

Secondly, I'm not worrying about my finishing times. I'll be disciplined about training, I'll push myself hard, but I'm not setting up unrealistic expectations. I am going to have fun being a runner again. Because after the Marine Corps Marathon, there is always the possibility of more races and I will be in great shape to train for them. The marathon isn't the end of the journey it's just somewhere in the middle so if it takes me 6 hours, then it takes me 6 hours.

And lastly, I am embracing wabi-sabi. My friend Janice taught me this word. I love it. It is a Japanese aesthetic concept, but when applied to a life philosophy it essentially means that there is perfection in imperfection.

And I am soooooo wabi-sabi. (So are you!)

Attitude 2...or Atti2de

noreply@blogger.com (Sara) — Fri, 02 Dec 2011 14:32:00 +0000

A couple of noteworthy submissions on attitude by one of my favorite people:

"I have come to the frightening conclusion that I am the decisive element. It is my personal approach that creates the climate. It is my daily mood that makes the weather. I possess tremendous power to make life miserable or joyous. I can be a tool of torture or an instrument of inspiration, I can humiliate or humor, hurt or heal. In all situations, it is my response that decides whether a crisis is escalated or de-escalated, and a person is humanized or de-humanized. If we treat people as they are, we make them worse. If we treat people as they ought to be, we help them become what they are capable of becoming.” van Goethe

Attitude is acting "as if".

But this is my favorite:

Happy Friday!

Attitude

noreply@blogger.com (Sara) — Fri, 02 Dec 2011 01:43:00 +0000

The last of the human freedoms is to choose one's attitude in any given set of circumstances.
Victor Frankl

Not too long ago I wrote about running and attitude. I find myself in need of some inspiration as the final days of 2011 are upon us. Here's what I found:

Carl Jung says it's : a "readiness of the psyche to act or react in a certain way".
Hmm. I need to ready my psyche. Ok, I'm on it.

Then I found this:

This dude needs to ready his psyche too.

My dad would agree with this:

He's big on attitude. In fact he's my 'attitude' role model.

Libby would say this:

And I love her for it.

Several of my students would embrace this:

This is sometimes how I get through my workday:

None of these are the funk-breaking-ass-kicking that I need.

This is closer:

I'm off to ready my psyche for tomorrow.

Thankful 2011

noreply@blogger.com (Sara) — Fri, 25 Nov 2011 00:18:00 +0000

I am thankful for...

1. My amazing family. These four people brought five other amazing people into my life and I love every minute I get to spend with them. We are extraordinarily ordinary.

2. My health-though I don't always take as good care of it as I should.

3. A job I love doing and people I like and respect to do it with.

4. A beautiful and peaceful old farmhouse to call home...for now.

5. The guts it took to finish my MPA.

6. My mother's stuffing-there is nothing like it in the world.

7. Skydiving.

8. Living in a place with four seasons, and enough clear nights to see the stars.

9. My friend Elizabeth who gave me Nantucket, chocolate boxes, the Nike Women's Marathon and so much more.

10. Having loved and lost.

11. My passport, my backpack and all of the adventures those two things provide.

12. My Mac and my iPhone. I love Apple.

13. Self reliance and independence.

14. Running, yoga, hiking, zumba and anything else that keeps me moving.

15. NPR.

16. Josh Groban. (That's not true, I just wrote that to make Libby laugh.)

17. Guinness (a pint, stew, gingerbread, floats...)

18. Monty Python-for never failing to made me giggle.

19. Skype-I get to hear Evan say "Ove you Auntie"- he's working on his L's.

20. George and Saoirse-they don't ask for much but they're good friends.

21. Mostly I am thankful for being raised with a great capacity for love and hope, for always having enough, and for the incredible amount of laughter and courage from my friends and family.

Wishing you and your family peace and joy and a delicious dinner!

Restless

noreply@blogger.com (Sara) — Fri, 18 Nov 2011 04:18:00 +0000

I am battling my nomadic nature.

Now that my Master's degree is done I am feeling the restless pull for change. And yet I am not in any position to make many changes, at least not the kind I am used to. For example, I have moved roughly 20 times since I graduated high school. That encompasses 6 states and 3 colleges and 9 jobs. The desire for change is now manifesting itself in other ways. I briefly contemplated getting another cat. You know, shake things up a bit in my little household. I had already squashed that idea when my younger sister gently informed me that another cat would qualify me for "crazy cat lady" status. (She herself has 4 cats, but she's married with two kids so I think they cancel each other out in the crazy cat lady equation.)

I love my job, so I don't really want to leave. It's not where I want to spend the rest of my career so that door always remains unlocked, but I don't think I am ready to walk through it just yet.

This past weekend, Jessica showed me the most incredible property for sale in Middlebury. It's a beautiful old farm house from the 1800's. It has these magnificent (original?) pine board floors, funky pocket doors, and a charming little reading nook. It sits on 7+ acres with a pond, and beautiful woods. But the best part about it is the smaller farmhouse for sale right. next. door. In my dreams, I win the lottery and buy both houses so that I can live in this idyllic setting next to my sister. I could garden, adopt a dog, teach my nieces and nephew how to skate and swim...but I know even in that scenario I would get wanderlust.

So what's next?

I think I need a mini top ten list for the next year...to keep me focused.

UPDATE:Here's the mini top ten...

10. Take a sign language class.

9. Learn how to make crepes.

8. Visit Mary and Cagle in MD.

7. Outline the book Jess and I want to write. (and maybe work on the first chapter?)

6. Find a local half marathon, properly train, and PR it.

5. Get all of my belongings under one roof-which means cleaning out the crawl space and attic at my parents.

4. Pull out all my empty picture frames and either put pictures IN them and hang them up or donate them.

3. Continue to learn how to snowboard.

2. Play Christmas Elf to at least 5 people. (and never let them figure out it was me!)

1. Plan my next trip abroad-even if I don’t have the money to do it for several years.

Trilogy, Trinity, Trio.

noreply@blogger.com (Sara) — Sun, 13 Nov 2011 22:32:00 +0000

I have amazing sisters. And for the 2nd year in a row we got together for what is bound to become a long-standing annual tradition: Sisters' Weekend. Here are this year's highlights.

1. Jojo's scrambled eggs for breakfast.
She makes amazing scrambled eggs. Her kids even prefer them to pancakes. Jessica and I coaxed her into making them for us both days.

2. Walking around the Pheasant Lane Mall-counterclockwise to ensure we saw every store.
With almost military precision we managed to walk past every store in the mall. I have no idea why this became important, but it did. It reaffirmed my extreme dislike for mall shopping, but where my sisters go-I follow.

3. Jessica attacking us with the Pig Popper Doll in Brookstone.
She found this toy:

and proceeded to follow us around the store pegging the little balls at us and then squealing-if you'll forgive the pun- with glee. She wanted to get it for Nella until Johanna reminded her that "shooting" toys may not be the best gift for a 3 year old.

4. Cement-eating pumpkins.
It's harder to explain this one-but Johanna still has her pumpkins out on her front steps. We'd noted how they were a bit past their prime. As we walked in the door one time Johanna tested the largest one's rigidity with her foot and it leaked pumpkin juice all over the steps. The next morning the cement had a huge crater in it. Spooky.

5. Olive Garden.
a. So. much. food.
b. Laughing so hard we annoyed our waiter-he clearly doesn't have sisters....or a sense of humor.
c. Just when we had composed ourselves, something else made Jessica laugh and she spit a mouthful of water all over Johanna and I. Seriously.

Run, Green Bean, Run.

noreply@blogger.com (Sara) — Mon, 07 Nov 2011 00:01:00 +0000

I'm not a great storyteller. But I love stories. One of my favorite NPR offerings is The Moth . They bill it as true stories, told live, without notes. People, famous and obscure, get up on stage and share a story, relating to some overarching theme of the night, to a live audience. They are funny, insightful, heartbreaking and affirming. (If you can't listen to it live on an NPR station because some silly politician took away all of their funding and now you're lucky if they can broadcast anything but classical music, then you can always download the podcast or 'like' them on Facebook to get your fix).

These are some of my favorites:
Mike Destefano: Both "Franny's Last Ride" and "The Junkie and the Monk" are amazing.
Mike Birbiglia: "Sleepwalk With Me" -You'll never say Walla Walla, WA the same way again.
Brian Finkelstein: "Jewish Blood, Irish Heart"-He spends a weekend with one of the Chieftain's and makes you wish you had his luck.
Steve Osbourne: "Mug Shot" Thick NYC accent, incredible story about being a police officer.

I looked for links to these and others, but some I only have on podcast so I can't help you out. (If you simply must hear them, let me know and I'll make you a "Moth Mix" on cd-cause I am that awesome.)

The story that prompted this post is called "Green Bean Queen" which thankfully you can watch right here: Green Bean Queen.

It's time to start running again. And there are all of these old tapes that start playing in my head about how hard it is, how out of shape I am, blah, blah, blah. I challenge myself to stay positive and focused but it is good to be reminded that we all should only ever be the best little green bean we can be.

Me and one of my favorite fellow green beans, Nike Women's Marathon, 2005.

Next up is Pub 317's Run to the Pub in Bozeman, MT with another fellow green bean, Kim.
13.1 miles to a pub on St. Patrick's Day.
That's my kind of race.

Married, Dead or Crazy.

noreply@blogger.com (Sara) — Thu, 27 Oct 2011 00:02:00 +0000

Funny story.

Not really 'ha-ha' funny. More 'oh, sweet Jesus, is this really my life?' funny.

So, I'm driving back home after visiting my mum in the hospital, I was lost in thought and weary from travel and worry. My cell phone rang, forcing me back into the moment. It was an old boyfriend-well, boyfriend may be too significant of a label-we dated for a brief time many years back. We've stayed in touch on and off given that since we both left CT, we haven't lived anywhere near one another, and he is a submariner in the Navy and spends six months out of the year underwater. There were a hundred reasons why it didn't work out, distance being the least of our differences. He is a lovely guy, he just wasn't the guy for me. But he very much wanted to be the "the" guy for someone. And so when he called the other day, it was to tell me that he was going to propose to his current girlfriend. (He even texted me a picture of the ring.) Even though I was genuinely happy for him, I have to admit, I was surprised that he wanted to share this news with me before he had even proposed. I mean, I know his sweetheart will say yes, so telling people isn't a gamble. But think to yourself a moment...you're in love and you want to spend the rest of your life with this person. You pick out the perfect ring, you start planning the perfect moment...and before you've had a chance to ask your beloved for his or her hand in marriage...you make the all important phone call to...your pseudo-ex.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not jealous or disappointed and I don't feel like I missed out on anything-I am perfectly happy that he is happy. However we are merely acquaintances now. I don't even think he actually knows that much about my life anymore. Perhaps he just needed someone to be happy for him. And that someone got to be me. Ultimately, this is par for the course in the bizarro world of my romantic life.

So I share this strange conversation with my sister and she just chuckles. I tell her that, with one exception*, everyone I've ever dated will now be married. She says "Really?" I think for a minute and then I reply "Well, you know...married, dead or crazy." And we both burst out laughing because this is absurdly true.

This remark isn't meant to be irreverent of the amazing man I loved who lost his life. And it isn't even meant to disparage the man I loved who was later diagnosed with a debilitating and cruel psychiatric disorder. It just highlights the supreme amount of ridiculousness that has defined my love life.

Jessica swears that I'm due for a nice, normal relationship.

To be honest, I'd happily settle for being the last to know about my ex's nice, normal relationships.

*For the record, the 'exception' told me that he and his girlfriend might as well be married, but it's not a priority for them. So I'm counting him among the unhitched for now.

The List

noreply@blogger.com (Sara) — Thu, 13 Oct 2011 02:26:00 +0000

I love lists.

Grocery lists, Christmas lists, chore lists, work lists, book lists...you name it. There is a profound sense of accomplishment for me when I get to cross something off. I'll make lists mid-project just to cross of the tasks I have already completed. Many years ago, my very dear friend Kim inspired me to make a list of things I wanted to do before I died. This was long before the movie "Bucket List" came out. She made a list of four things she wanted to do when she was 9 and accomplished almost all of them before she left college. They included:

Driving to Florida
Going to Alaska
Hiking the AT
Biking to Maine (which she did with her mom when she was 11!)

My own list has 10 things on it (Thank you, David Letterman). I think this is circa 1997...

1. Complete an advanced degree (Master's or PhD.)
2. Own a home in Ireland
3. Skydive
4. Parent a child
5. Run a 4:30 Marathon (Amended after I ran my first one)
6. Set foot in all 50 US States and all 7 Continents (only 7 states and 5 continents to go!)
7. Write and publish a book
8. Learn another language
9. Hike the VT Long Trail
10. Be invited back to speak at my alma mater (Castleton State College)

Skydiving was the first thing I checked off of the list. In fact, if you watch the video of it, you can hear me verbally check it off when I land. (Who knew that these years later I would feel compelled to go back and do it again and again.)

I can now say that I have completed my Master's degree and therefore another check mark. As I look at the list I see how monumental some of them are-own a home in Ireland? Right. We get paid so much money working in education that it should be noooooo problem. Yet, I don't have the heart to remove it. These are my dreams and I want to remember I had them rather than water them down with what only seems plausible.

Recently, I was talking to my sister about this list and lamenting that the one that seems the most unlikely (yes, even more unlikely than owning a home in Ireland) is 'parent a child'. I'm almost 40 and the old ovaries ain't what they used to be. And her response was one of the most generous things anyone has ever said to me. She commented how much time and energy I spend with my nieces and nephew and said "you know, in way you do parent these children." It's not the same as actually being a parent and we both knew it, but it was such a gift for her to see me in this way and to be willing to share that role with me in a small way. And if I don't have children, I might someday feel like I could still check this off-but we'll see how Nella, Evan and Callie get through their teenage-years first.

So, the Master's degree is done, and I'm left to wonder what to do next. It was really hard to finish, much harder than I thought it would be. When I first submitted the final draft of my thesis I had this panicked thought that maybe I would be like those retirees who stop working and drop dead. (God forbid, I celebrate. No. I have to go to the dark side.) I spent so much time working on the degree and worrying about working on the degree that when it was done, I was afraid my body would go into shock with all the time I had on my hands. But tonight as I finish the last component- a PowerPoint for my thesis presentation-I'm surprised at how emotional I am. There were several moments in the last two and half years when I thought I might not be able to do it. I'm pretty smart, but academic work has never come easy to me. I'm too right brained. And I'm a bit of perfectionist. Not the high-functioning kind that really does everything perfectly. I'm more of a intense-fear-of-failure-so reach for-perfection-and-thereby-shoot-myself-in-the-foot kind of perfectionist. This time, it almost cost me my MPA. Oddly enough, there is something incredibly liberating about actually failing-facing and embracing it. The world didn't end, everybody who loved me before still loved me, there wasn't any drama attached to it at all. It just was. And as much as it sucked, it wasn't so scary anymore. I picked myself up and went back to work. And the next thing you know? A big 'ole check mark.

And so I am thankful for my list-for all of the hope and fear it represents.

I think I'll start working on that 4:30 marathon.

NOTE:
Apparently, Kim and I also made lists of the the things we wanted in the "perfect man". I found mine written on a bar napkin (which will tell you a lot about my state of mind when I was writing it):

Must have a sense of humor, and think I am funny.
Preferably tall and strong (not Ah-nold strong, just 'capable' strong)
Loves to travel
Knows how and willing to cook
Willing to hold hands in public
Ability to hold long, interesting conversations
Knows when to work and when to play
Must be gentle and kindhearted and sarcastic (yes, I actually wrote this)
And lastly, must have nice eyes.

Reading it now, I think I have a better chance of having children than meeting this person. If I ever have a daughter, I will advocate for imagination and fantasy, but steer her away from fairy tales. It's so much better to love the imperfections, and yet nearly impossible to make a list of them.

Every streetlight a reminder...

noreply@blogger.com (Sara) — Thu, 15 Sep 2011 02:05:00 +0000

After working for almost 5 straight weeks to train our student leaders and to open the College in the midst of the worst tropical storm Vermont has seen in almost one hundred years, I was ready for a break. After a little more than 48 hours with the most energetic child I have ever known...scratch that...she is one of the most energetic human beings I have ever known, my body didn't feel like I'd actually had a break, but my head and heart did.

As I was driving back home late on Sunday night, I threw on an old mixed CD I had made seven or eight years ago, and hadn't listened to in a long time. One of my favorite things about mixed tapes or CDs is that they often capture a time and place in my life better than any journal or blog could do. Like so many things in my life, if I like it, I will listen, watch, read, eat, or do it over and over and over until I'm bored with it. So each CD is a commentary on who I was, what I was doing, how I felt, etc about that moment in time. I have one mix of Sting, Matchbox 20, Third Eye Blind, Frank Sinatra, and the Rolling Stones that I listened to over and over during my road trip to Montana to visit my sister in the summer of 2000. Whenever I hear Desert Rose or Motorcycle Drive By I can smell the smoke of the forest fires, see the Tetons, and recall rolling around on the floor laughing with my sister. (If you know my sister, you can feel free to ask her about the time I tripped on the stairs up to her apartment....and well, I'll let her tell you the rest. It was so embarrassing, but so funny-and just one of the many reasons we were rolling on the floor laughing.) And don't even get me started on the Destinationless tapes...White Rabbit by Jefferson Starship, Diet Cokes, Marlboro Lights and one of the best friendships you could ask for...but I digress.

The CD I was listening to during this drive home had some BoDeans, Coldplay, Radiohead, Billy Bragg and The Killers on it and I had titled it "Making Dinner" which brought me back to the time I first met Voldemort and I was still a bit smitten. More than that, it reminded me of time when I was feeling strong and directed-life had resumed a sense of normalcy after the death of BL. And then came track 14. I knew it was there and yet wasn't expecting it. One of my favorite songs ever-one of the songs I have never become bored with-Nightswimming by REM. You were hoping for something more profound? Well, I put this song on almost every mix I ever made.

It takes me to so many different places in my life I feel like I must have been singing it since childhood. It really started with late nights in Wilder at J's apartment in the early 1990's, where I escaped some of my teen angst and quietly rebelled against my goody-two-shoes image by smoking cigarettes and staying up late. (I know, right? I was sooo out of control.) That whole album, Automatic for the People, represents the beginning of my journey down the road less traveled-off the path everyone thought I would take. Perhaps that is why it is so profound for me.

The road less traveled took me to Silver City, New Mexico. While most people in their late teens and early twenty's re-evaluate their world with alcohol, weed or some other recreational drug. I decided to become a flower child. If you know me now, you just choked back your laughter. Its ok, I understand. But I was a flower child who didn't drink or smoke pot. I just bought a lot of second hand clothes and stopped shaving my legs. And I spent a considerable amount of time at the Mimbres Hot Springs Ranch, a modern day commune tucked away in the mountains of southwest New Mexico. The families that owned the land built their own houses, grew their own food and had some of the most incredible and luxurious outhouses I have ever seen. They also had natural hot springs that they had tapped into and built small pools around so you could soak all of your cares away in the dry southwest air. When the spring water was too hot, you could hop out and jump into the cool, refreshing waters of the small swimming pond adjacent to the upper springs. And because we were flower children, we swam naked.

It always felt liberating and scandalous at the same time. Like I was completely comfortable in my own skin (indeed, I was only wearing my own skin) and yet I knew that this person would be unrecognizable to my friends and family back home. When and if I spoke of it with them, they rolled their eyes, smirked as though they thought I was trying to be subversive, or shook their heads...sometimes all three in the same moment. I couldn't explain it then, but for me, this song illuminates everything that swimming in the pond at the Ranch, under a clear night sky full of stars was to me.

Nightswimming deserves a quiet night.
I'm not sure all these people understand.
It's not like years ago
The fear of getting caught
Of recklessness and water.
They cannot see me naked.
These things, they go away
replaced by everyday.

You, I thought I knew you.
You I cannot judge.
You I thought you knew me
This one laughing quietly underneath my breath.
Nightswimming.

It occurred to me as I was driving home, listening to this song, how in those days and nights at the Ranch I was the most pure and authentic person I could be. I wasn't less full of doubt, I just embraced all of the possibilities with less calculation.

I gave up my flower child status a long time ago. I routinely shave my legs and can't imagine swimming naked with people I barely know. But I love that for a brief time I was that girl because she taught me so much about how to live my life. And I am grateful for a song that helps me capture that moment when I need a little reminding. I hope you all have that song.

Jumping out of planes...let 'er rip!

noreply@blogger.com (Sara) — Mon, 05 Sep 2011 04:24:00 +0000

I love learning new things. Today's lesson was about ripping dvds to my computer so I can post them to this blog. By most standards, my computer is ancient. I like to call her Granny Mac. The OS is old enough that I can't download much in the way of new programs, but I'm not ready to drop the $$$$$ for a new one.

I know two people who use Macs and who rank high on the technical competencies scale. If I were a wealthy woman I would keep them both on retainer as my personal MacBook Pros. One of them is a friend of Jess and AJ's. Our interactions are mostly through Facebook and he usually answers my questions before I finish typing them. I'm telling you, it's handy. The other is someone I have known for over 9 years-someone who made me laugh at a time in my life when I thought I might never find anything funny again. When I first met him, he was rarely serious. He knew how to work hard, but when he wasn't working he was always playing. Enough so, that I didn't always take him seriously. When he came to help me connect my personal computer to the network of the college I'd just started working at, I was nervous about something going wrong. I remember saying something like "I want to trust that you know what you are doing, but please don't break it". He looked at with annoyance and in a voice that made me feel like 4 year old said "I don't break computers." I knew then that I had met an IT guru.

Between the two of them I finally figured out how to pull...err..excuse me rip... my skydiving videos off of the dvds and load them here.

Coincidentally, this one is of my very first tandem skydive. Guru #2 worked on VSA's website and traded his hours for my jump. Told you he's pretty great.

Conversational Drought

noreply@blogger.com (Sara) — Thu, 01 Sep 2011 01:20:00 +0000

Being an ardent Vermonter who loves her home state, you might expect this post to be about the destruction and losses we've sustained this past week. I've seen the pictures, watched the videos, heard first hand accounts from friends who lost a little and those who lost a lot. I've ruminated on the fact that a few days ago it would have only taken me 2 hours to get to my parents in the event of an emergency. The fastest route to them now is about 5 hours and I have to go further south before I can go north. But a whole post ? I can't do it-i just don't have the words.

Instead I'm writing about something only slightly less tragic-my social life.

I'm beginning my 4th year at Little Tiny Vermont College-and for the better part of the first 3 years I did four things-ate, slept, worked and completed grad school classes. To be honest, until recently I've been fine with my limited activities. When I moved back to Vermont in August of 2008 I had just left Philadelphia-a place that was too loud, dirty and crowded for me. I had also ended my relationship with a man I'll call Voldemort. ( Trust me, it fits.) Peace, quiet, the green mountains, my family and a chance to shake off a bad relationship were just what I needed.

Now I am starting to feel the effects of a life spent in my office, and mostly talking to 18-25 year-olds. I love my job, love working with young adults as they figure out who they are, and what they want to be when they grow up. But the other day one of my staff members read the Beloit College Mindset list for the Class of 2015 and one of the items referenced the fact that River Phoenix had been dead for 20 years. One of our students said "who is River Phoenix?" and I almost cried. And not because I am missing River Phoenix...but because it made me officially old. Old in the eyes of people I spend 90% of my time with...including my staff. We are such a tiny school with less than 65 full-time employees- most of who are married, with families and who don't actually live in Bennington. Even my professional staff members are under 25. They are smart, dynamic, talented and funny women, and we have great conversation but my efforts to connect with them have become more and more challenging. Case in point-last year we were sitting at the table in the caf and one woman jokingly made a reference to the line "Dingo ate my baby". I asked her if she had seen the movie. She looked at me somewhat perplexed and said "What movie?" I said that they line she just used was from A Cry in the Dark. She laughed and said she heard it on Saturday Night Live and thought it was a joke made up by the show. Not her fault-she was only 2 years old when the movie came out.

And just because it's funny-here's Elaine doing it on Seinfeld: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ghCTZF61ey0

Anyway...

Having been insular for awhile now, I am faced with the daunting prospect of crawling out of this cocoon and finding people who understand my cultural references. I'm not even talking about dating-which is a whole other blog post I have no desire to write. I could just do with some adult conversation over a real bottle of red wine. The kind that costs more than $7.99.

I said to a friend that what I really need is an intellectual prostitute. I would pay good money for someone who listened to NPR, read the Journal or the Times, was responsible for their own bills, and knew that "dingo ate my baby" was funny because of Meryl Streep. Someone who didn't make me feel like being 38 was truly ancient. (This was going to be hard enough to accomplish in Bennington as it was-but now that every major road in VT that went 'somewhere' is impassable, I will likely have to airlift in my scholastic escort.)

It doesn't help that I'm not exactly a social barfly. Butterfly...barfly-whatever. Either way-I know I gotta use my wings if I'm going to find what I'm looking for.

So if the next time you see me, I corner you to discuss some seemingly random, slightly esoteric topic, just humor me and say "Can you believe River Phoenix has been dead for 20 years?"

And if you quote Stand By Me, I will probably buy you a nice bottle of red wine.

Murphy O'Meyer is a nice way of saying...

noreply@blogger.com (Sara) — Fri, 19 Aug 2011 21:04:00 +0000

for fuck's sake! (It's funnier when my sister, Jessica, says it.)

Anyway...the expletive will make sense in a minute.

A few weeks ago we had the most amazing reunion for the families that grew up on Perkins Place in the '70's and '80's. Almost 50 people gathered at one family's lake house for an afternoon of good food, swimming, laughing and remembering. There were 7 of the original families, with each family bringing at least 3 generations. These people were my "it takes a village to raise a child" family and seeing them brought back so many memories.

It's not often these days that at age 38 I can have a conversation with someone who has known me for 35 years, but my lovely friend Janice (Burns) Lawrence was the first friend I had on Perkins Place. She and I can go months without talking and pick right up where we left off. In fact, when I arrived at the lake house (her mom and dad's house!) she came right over and couldn't wait for me to get out of the car to give me a hug-there is such love and history between us.

After we hugged one another, another friend snapped a photo of us side by side. That photo is what prompted this post because it has left me a little bit speechless. I knew I wasn't taking good care of myself this summer. I haven't been running as much as I planned and I haven't been cooking at home very often, but still...I had no idea that this was how things had "shaped" up. And so I say...Murphy O'Meyer!

I will never be a thin woman. It's not in my genetics nor my body structure. I spent my formative teenage years full of angst and insecurity over this fact, but as an adult I have much more love and respect for myself. So I am not going start blogging about weight loss and how I am waiting to become the skinny 'me' who is stuck inside of the chubby 'me', because the truth is I know I am beautiful right now. But I can't run marathons like this. And while I could skydive, I'm pretty sure my instructors would have to bend in half to adjust to my fall rate. But what bothers me about this image isn't the fact that I am overweight, it's that I am unhealthy. And that's not something I can live with-literally and 'figure'atively. (Sorry-I like corny puns. Deal with it.)

So it's game on.

More mental carbs...less actual carbs.

Independence Day 2011

noreply@blogger.com (Sara) — Tue, 05 Jul 2011 03:26:00 +0000

I finally did it. AFF level 1? Done.

I give much credit to my sister and brother-in-law for finally getting me off of the ground. In the morning, before we went to the drop zone AJ was imitating Nella by jumping up and down, screaming "Blast off". I don't remember why she was doing it, or why he thought it was a good idea to imitate her, but it left Jessica and I in fits of giggles-which only encouraged him to keep doing it. In the video, over the roar of the wind, you can hear him say it to me when I turn to 'check-in'. It is just one of the many ways, they made this more fun for me (as if having more fun jumping out of a plane were possible!).

With one small hiccup-AJ gave me the pull sign and I thought he was telling me to straighten my legs-the jump was ideal. Of course we landed in a field about a mile and a half from the drop zone which meant I owed beer. (See HERE for skydiving-beer-owing-rules) But Julia drove AJ's big-ass turbo diesel truck out to pick us up so we didn't have to trudge back in the heat, lugging our parachutes.

It was such a great experience I almost wished that I hadn't invested all of my skydiving money in Jumptown.

One of my favorite moments after the skydive was watching Nella Gale do her very special salute to the plane. I wish I had this on video because it's so fantastic. Every time the plane takes off she kicks her leg up in the air and claps. One of the other skydivers taught her this maneuver and the best part is that she does it whether anyone is watching or not. In this way, she is truly one of them.

I hope, someday, I am too.

A Very Bold Move

noreply@blogger.com (Sara) — Fri, 17 Jun 2011 01:20:00 +0000

Today I did something very bold and mental carb-ish.

I canceled my Netflix subscription.

Wait, you're not impressed? Okay, let me explain.

When I finally moved off campus last summer I had to cut costs and one of the first things to go was cable. I like TV and goodness knows I'll watch it if it's there-it was free on campus but I couldn't justify $60-$100 a month for Comcast or Direct TV for the few hours I might squeeze in each week in between work, grad school and the small slice of a personal life I try to maintain. My concession was my Netflix subscription. I have a Wii so I can stream movies and old TV shows through it-and it was enough. (Well, mostly enough-I still miss my guilty pleasure of NCIS, but in the scheme of things, it was ok.)

Then we had this long, cold, snowy winter and I...ahem...becameabitofanaddict.

What? Oh, you didn't quite understand me. Let me try again.

Ibecameabitofanaddict.

Ok, fine.

I said- I. became. a. bit. of. an. addict. (You should know my head is hung,slightly, in shame and I am not making any eye contact as I type this.)

It's true-it was awful! I watched so much junk. I OD'd on Glee, Veronica Mars, Monty Python's Flying Circus, Battlestar Gallactica, Ken Burns' Civil War and Baseball and a lot of PBS' Masterpiece Theater. (Downton Abbey and Sherlock were actually quite excellent. You should check them out. Really good acting and good storylines...c'mon just try it. What-are you scared of little PBS? Everyone is doing it...oh wait, sorry about that-I'm only a couple of days into recovery.)

It started to become very apparent that TV had taken over my life, or at the very least, had become a huge obstacle to getting a lot of other important things done. Too much telly meant I didn't get enough exercise, I stopped being as creative, and I became more insular than I had before.

So I made the commitment to watch less and honestly, it was great. I tried Zumba for the first time, I started running again, and I spent more time with the people I love. In the end I discovered that with so many distractions in my life, perhaps Netflix is one I don't need-even a little bit. This feels like a bold choice, in part because I live in the sticks-I don't get cell phone service at my little farmhouse. I have internet but it isn't fast enough to allow me to watch movies or TV online. My DVD player died last year and I never replaced it. If it weren't for my beloved Mac I'd barely be living in the 21st century out here. Okay, that's a bit of a pretentious exaggeration. (My sister Jessica is saying out loud "A bit? I find it moderately ludicrous that you would whine about your Mac.")

And you might want to counter with the fact that I have a Wii, but the funny part is that my house is so old and small, I can't play most of my games without wreaking a bit of havoc.

Anyway, my point is-not a lot of ultra modern technology left here...but I'm finding it liberating. It was a cozy cocoon that served it's purpose for the long cold winter, and I just don't need it anymore.

Especially since this year I am actually learning to fly.

You can't always get what you want...

noreply@blogger.com (Sara) — Mon, 06 Jun 2011 02:42:00 +0000

Today I am reminded, once again, why attitude matters.

My dad used to share this little gem with me and my sisters. It's by Charles Swindoll.

My younger self often scoffed at it. Charles Swindoll is an evangelical minister which is already at odds with my personal philosophies and he is a white male so I tend to think it's easy to give attitude so much credit when you don't have a lot of barriers put in your way by society.

But my older self, the one who is not as much of a rebel as she used to be, who is sometimes too tired to pull out her soapbox-she has learned to appreciate the sentiment behind his words. "We cannot change the inevitable." It's just another way of saying "It is what it is" and I say that ALL the time.

Today I should be running the 20th Annual Covered Bridges Half Marathon but for the past five days I've been sick- fever, sore throat and complete and utter exhaustion.

It would have been a tough one as I didn't train well-but I could have finished it. It's a hard race to get into and this is the second year in a row I have had to bail at the last minute. So it is through gritted teeth and with a bit of sarcasm that I say, it is what it is.

But deep down I am pissed off. I'm not as flexible as I would like to be. Not this kind of flexible. The kind that allows to me to roll with the punches a little bit easier. I loathe not accomplishing that which I set my intention to do. In the past this has made me stubborn and way too loyal to only one outcome. Years ago I probably would have tried running anyway and then been sick for another three weeks.

Between the lack of jump-able weather (I have yet to make my A jump!), being sick and now not being able to run, I'm struggling to be nimble.

So to counter my rigid tendencies I'm working very hard at reminding myself how much attititude matters-it is my mental yoga. If I keep practicing, the pose is easier to maintain for longer periods of time.

Still, instead of Swindoll, I am much more likely to break out in song ala Sheryl Crow's beach-y, pop tune: "It's not having what you want, it's wanting what you got."

Or better yet: The Stones. Because if you try sometimes you just might find, you get what you need.

Time to happy-up and focus on what's next.

Happy Birthday YaYa!

noreply@blogger.com (Sara) — Wed, 01 Jun 2011 01:30:00 +0000

I'm so lucky to be a part of this family!

Memorial Day

noreply@blogger.com (Sara) — Mon, 30 May 2011 15:41:00 +0000

Sgt. Bryon E. Lane, USMC 1974-2001

I love the life I have now, but I will always remember your friendship.

C.R.a.P.

noreply@blogger.com (Sara) — Thu, 26 May 2011 20:23:00 +0000

Sunday. My last day of camp. Today is the day I will finally get to jump out of an airplane.

Wait.

What's that?

Do I hear maniacal laughter ringing from the skies above?

Sigh.

It's gray, cloudy and, if you can believe it, it's also hazy when I wake up Sunday morning. I've awoken extra early because my father is coming down to get the RV and take it back to VT. He told me he would be here around 9am, which in his world means 8:30am so I know I need to be ready by 8am, just in case. Surprisingly, this time he is true to his word and right at 9am, he pulls up in the enormous truck, built Ford tough, that will haul this rig. Serendipitously, I am putting the last bag in my car. As I close the door, I wave him over.

What happens next is a small turning point in my relationship with my dad.

He very calmly walks me through the entire process of breaking down and packing up the RV for transport. He doesn't just tell me, he makes me do it. Everything from tying the furniture down, emptying the gray (water) and black (sewer) tanks, sliding the extended rooms in, storing hoses and wheel blocks, and raising the support posts. He even shows me how to hitch it to the truck.

Let me say that again. My dad actually shows me how to attach the RV hitch to the truck. And then he says "In case you ever need to haul this thing, now you'll know how to do it."

I have this flash of fear that he must be dying, because the only world I can imagine where he would actually let me hitch AND haul the RV with the truck is one where he isn't here to do it himself.

Don't get me wrong. My dad is father to three girls. Growing up, we were not short changed in the chore dept. just because we were daughters instead of sons. We hauled wood, helped him build things, fix things and take things apart. Hell, my sisters and I used to argue over who got to ride to dump with him. That being said, my dad is stubborn and sometimes he's a my-way-or-the-highway-control-freakish kind of guy. When you add two young, healthy, 6 ft.+ tall sons-in-law to the mix? Well, lets just say when I am at my parents house, I do a lot more housework then yard work these days. In fact, this past winter, my dad underwent surgery on his shoulder. Given the incredibly voluminous snowfall we received this year, I came home as often as I could to help with snow removal. He begrudgingly 'let' me run the snow blower but most of the time he actually stood on the front or back deck and "oversaw" my work. One day I was so frustrated with his supervision that I looked up, pointed at him, and then pointed at the house. He got the message and went inside... and proceeded to watch me from the bay window in the kitchen.

So this "if you ever needed to haul the RV" statement? It's kind of a big deal. When the fear that he must be dying passes, I am actually moved (no pun intended) by it. There is love, respect, and confidence in his statement (If I were his son, I might say that it made me feel like a man. As his daughter, saying that it made me feel like a woman doesn't create the same sentimental effect). But even more than that, there is now an equality between us.

He gets in the truck and says, through the open window, "I love you, kid. Be careful today". He slowly pulls away with the RV creaking and groaning. Just before he disappears from my view, he sticks his left hand out the window to wave goodbye. I just stand there for a few minutes reveling in the fact that I may now officially be a grown-up.

I'm not in any rush to get the DZ as I am pretty sure it will be a no-go for jumping. Again. The campground I'm staying at is way up in the Erving State Forest so the road down is long, winding and absolutely beautiful.

About half way down the road I catch sight of something in one of the trees so I pull over and grab my camera.

No joke, it was a bear.

What...you can't see it? No problem. Here's a close-up.

Rrrraaawr.
Okay, you got me. It wasn't a real bear.

After this super-exciting wildlife excursion, I make my way to Orange and the DZ. I decide I will stop in and buy a Skydiver's Information Manual (SIM), say hi to everyone and then head back home. The first thing I notice when I walk through the door is that there are two AFF students with their name on the manifest board. I ask Cathy what the story is about the weather and she suggests I stick around until at least 2pm. So, I throw my name up on the board, buy my manual and sit under the shade at one of the picnic tables. A couple of guys are waiting for their tandem jumps and they pace nervously while launching testosterone-laden verbal barbs at one another to prove to themselves that they aren't actually nervous.

A guy wanders over to me and introduces himself as one of my jumpmasters. Dick is older, handsome, really grounded and, as I quickly realize, clearly doesn't get my sense of humor. It's okay, not everyone does but I have to shift gears into being a dutiful student. I pass muster when I can answer every question he throws at me (why couldn't I do that for the exam??) and can walk through every step of the exit and freefall plan. The plane is about to take a load of people up and I'm told that the next flight is flight 4 is next and I am on flight 5.

See, I knew it! I am definitely jumping today! We head over to pick out gear. The jumpsuit is my least favorite part, but I put it on anyway. Then the water emergency kit, the altimeter, the parachute (very important) and then helmet and goggles.

I am now about 15 minutes away from getting on the plane. I see a guy I went to high school with and walk over to say hi (turns out he's a tandem instructor. who knew?). In the middle of small talk with Sean I hear the announcement...clouds have moved back in and they are shutting down flights. I look at Dick and shake my head. We decide to stay in gear for a little bit to see what happens. I sit down on a bench, the weight of the parachute pulling me backwards a bit. After 30 minutes, Dick walks out and looks at the sky. I can tell by his expression that it's time to throw in the towel. I stand up, shuffle back the AFF corner of the hangar and slowly put my gear away. I know that the Universe is rolling around on the floor, clutching her sides from the pain of laughter.

I walk through the office to remove my name from the manifest board. Cathy watches me pick up the eraser. She tilts her head, frowns and says "Aww, honey. Don't worry, it'll happen."

I know that it will. Just not right now.

And it's okay, because my dad taught me how to hitch the RV to the truck. There are only so many giant leaps you can take in one day.

Norm!

noreply@blogger.com (Sara) — Wed, 25 May 2011 03:56:00 +0000

Friday's weather thwarts me completely. Jessica and I have a fabulous time together-laughing until the beer comes out of our noses. It's so rare, now that my sisters have children, that we are ever on our own. I adore my nieces and nephew-wouldn't trade them for anything in the world-but those 36 hours with Jess were serious 'mental carbs'.

We woke up on Saturday to (insert hysterical laughter from the Universe here) MORE gray skies. But it was inconceivable! to us that I wouldn't be jumping at least once that day so we decided to make our way to the DZ anyway. Jessica consumes about 6 of my Decaf French Vanilla Keurig K-Cups trying to ward off a caffeine withdrawal headache. To no avail (I know, shocking, eh?)-so we make the first order of business programming our GPS for the nearest Dunkin Donuts.

When we arrive at the DZ, the parking lot is 1/3 full-the regulars have come for the weekend. As they crane their necks to look up, it is obvious that their withdrawal from blue skies runs far deeper than Jessica's little coffee 'problem'.

People are hanging out at the picnic tables, by the plane, on the orange and blue couches inside and in the office/manifest area. Quite a few people are packing chutes and a few are stumbling over from the camping area, in varying stages of sleepy-ness. I put my name up on the dry erase board with the letter A next to it. That tells them I am here, want to make a jump and it's my category A skydive. I go to find Andreas to see if he has any hopeful news about the weather. I turn my back for a few moments to chat with Andreas and when I turn around Jessica is deep in conversation with someone so I wander out the tables and chairs next to the hangar and turn my face up to the little sliver of sun peeking through the clouds.

When Jessica joins me, she is wearing a bit of a smile-one I haven't seen her in for a very long time. Apparently she ran into one of her skydiving friends, someone she hadn't seen for several years. Throughout the day, I notice that as people chat with us, she refers to me as the newbie, here to do her first jump-but she also refers to herself as a skydiver, one with well over 600 jumps.

This is significant because she hasn't jumped since the birth of her daughter in 2008. I don't need to have a child to know how much being a mother changes you, your priorities, your willingness to take risks with your life. I'm quite sure my sister isn't the first mother to make sacrifices in her personal life in order to manage her family life. I know she can't imagine putting Nella in the position of growing up without a mother just so that she can pursue what she thinks of as her adrenaline junkie past-times. She owns that decision 100% but I also know deep down, she misses the freedom of skydiving and that part of her identity.

It fills me with a profound sense of joy to see her reclaim some of that. It really doesn't matter if she decides to skydive again or not-it just matters to me that she remembers how important it is to hold on to yourself - and - to find your community.

You know...the place where everybody knows your name, and they're always glad you came...even if you don't get to jump out an airplane that day.

Talking about death while wandering the aisles of Trader Joe's.

noreply@blogger.com (Sara) — Tue, 24 May 2011 01:43:00 +0000

While waiting for my older sister to arrive, and too annoyed to sit in the RV stewing about the lack of jump-able weather I made a pilgrimage to the Trader Joe's in Hadley, MA. I love this place more than I can express. (Hawaiian themed decorations, low prices, kitschy ads, and healthy food? I am so there.)

While I am meandering up and down the six or seven aisles that comprise this boutique-y grocery store, Jessica calls me to find out what the plan is. I tell her she should meet me at the campground and she immediately understands that this means all jumping is likely out of the question for today. She expresses her disappointment for me and we move on to discuss how we will fill the time.

After enticing her with the glorious meals I have planned by using the amazing foods in TJs, I tell her that if anything changes with the weather I will let her know and she can meet me at the DZ (drop zone). The reality that skydiving has the potential to be a dangerous sport prompts me to ask her if I have given her a copy of my "Last Wishes". It's not exactly a will but more of a "If possible, I'd like this...". She doesn't think I have so I tell her that the most important thing is that I don't want to be buried-I want to be cremated. This surprises her - I guess she thought I was a box-in-the-ground kind of girl, but she recovers and she follows up by asking the exact right question: where do you want your ashes spread? (FYI-anywhere in the Green Mountains and if possible-the Aran Islands in Ireland).

All of sudden I realize that other customers are looking at me - discussing death in the middle of the store is actually a little weird.

But knowing what I want done with my body, my belongings, my assets, my own little legacy to those I love-this isn't weird at all. I'm only 37 - the possibility of dying now isn't a constant thought. But having lived though the untimely and unexpected death of a loved one, I know that if it -whatever 'it' is- really matters to me then I need to communicate and take care of it now.

So even though I suggest to my sister that we move on to lighter subjects so that I stop scaring the other patrons just trying to bask in the wondrous glow of Trader Joe's, I make a mental note to send her the full wish list.

Just in case.

First Day of School

noreply@blogger.com (Sara) — Tue, 24 May 2011 00:13:00 +0000

When you throw out statements like this: "either way I will be the woman jumping out of a perfectly good airplane this weekend" to the Universe, you are practically inviting the Universe to say "Ha!".

Actually what the Universe said was: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

But before I explain that, I should start at the beginning.

I arrived in Orange, MA for Skydiving Camp on Wednesday night. I checked in at the Wagon Wheel Campground and settled into my parent's palatial RV. If lending me their taveling home wasn't love enough-I opened the fridge to find this:

Three ice-cold Long Trail ales.

(Quick review: Beer=actual carb. Gesture made by my dear father=mental carb.)

Thursday morning, I arrived bright eyed and bushy-tailed for my AFF ground school. Oddly, Jumptown was more like like a ghost town - it was damp and overcast-and the only bit of blue was my lone car in the parking lot. Gray (his name not his palor) greeted me in the office and introduced me to Andreas-my Instructor. I can tell right away that Andreas has been skydiving for a very long time. It's not that he is old, or that his ego is huge (both of these may be true but they aren't evident to me)- it's more that he seems completely at home in the hangar and I sense he could run the AFF class in his sleep. He's comes accross as affable but reserved- content enough to be teaching me about his sport there is something a little overcast about his demeanor. He mentions that it has been a very rough start to the season-not much sunshine, not much jumping. I also know that within the last year and a half they have lost two members of the Jumptown inner circle -one to illness and one to an accident-and I can't help but wonder if there is still the heaviness of grief hanging about. He gives me a brief tour of the place and leads me back to the AFF classroom.

The next 8 hours are spent covering every possible problem one could experience getting on an airplane in order to jump out of it. "Cut away and pull my reserve" became such a standard response that it no longer scares me. Despite the fact that the information I was learning was well outside of the realm of anything I had previously been exposed to, I did really well for about 3/4 of the day. I was right with him through every canopy malfunction, the whole dive flow, aircraft emergencies, hand signals and landing plans. However, when it came time for the test, it was as though someone cut of the top of my head, tipped me upside down and dumped my brain out onto the ground. (Honestly, I feel like I have seen that exact animation in a Monty Python sketch.)

The first question was so easy I thought it was a joke.

1."Where is the parachute located?"

I looked at Andreas, furrowed my brow and said "Really?" He smirked at me and then gave me a short lecture about skydiving drawing in people from across the intellectual and educational spectrums and that the test was designed to make sure you knew what you were doing. Chagrined, I ducked my head a bit and wrote down 'bottom, right-hand side'. I got the next few right, in part because they were equally as obvious ("arch", "cut away and pull my reserve", etc) But I kind of bombed some of the bigger questions. I knew them, but couldn't articulate them. This frustrated me-as someone who likes having the right answers and it annoyed Andreas-as someone who expected me to have the right answers.

We muddled though and at the end of the day he signed off on my test and essentially cleared me to jump. As much as I really wanted to, I was exhausted so I wasn't completely disappointed that it was still too gray to go up. I mean, I had ALL day Friday, Saturday and Sunday right?

This is where the Universe started laughing at me.

I woke up on Friday to the same weather I had on Thursday. I called Gray and he informed me of that which I already knew: there would be no jumping on Friday.